


In Paris, One Can Forgive the World

by limealive



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, BIG SPOILERS PLEASE STAY AWAY, Chain of Iron Spoilers, DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED CHAIN OF IRON, F/M, I'm still reeling from that ending, James goes to Paris, Love Triangles, Miscommunication, Parabatai Bond, Parabatai Feels, Paris (City), Post COI, Post-Chain of Iron, SPOILERS FOR CHAIN OF IRON, The devil works hard but my need for Chain of Thorns works harder, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29841165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limealive/pseuds/limealive
Summary: POST CHAIN OF IRON-- PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS!! That cliffhanger ending killed me so I'm just trying to make it through the next 365 days until we get Chain of Thorns...A couple of days after the events at the end of Chain of Iron, James follows the two people he loves most in the world to Paris. Hopefully he is not too late.
Relationships: Cordelia Carstairs/James Herondale, Cordelia Carstairs/Matthew Fairchild, Matthew Fairchild & James Herondale
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	1. James

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic I'm posting here, I'm not sure if it will be a longer something or just a lot of being angsty and confessing things in the city of love. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Again, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED CHAIN OF IRON. Spoilers are no fun for anyone.

James Herondale had never been colder. Knowing the warmth he felt when he was with Cordelia, its truth revealed to him as love only a week before, he now felt the lack of it--of her-- like a bitter wind in his bones. 

It was an emptiness that came from within him, not like the cold of the shadow realm, from where Daisy had brought him back, time and time again. And nor was it the cold of that one winter morning, only a few weeks since, when he had sworn upon an altar to never let her go and placed a rune of marriage upon her skin. 

James gazed out of the window of the train compartment, watching as the icy rain beat against the glass. He couldn’t help the deluge of thoughts, of feelings, of realizations that drowned him. The years lost, both of his own clarity of mind and the clarity of his feelings for Cordelia, would never be restored, never be returned to him. Nor would they be returned to Cordelia herself: James had been the prisoner, and yet he thought the greatest pain of it all might be how those he loved had suffered during his ensorcellment. They had been wrapped in that same iron chain as he, enduring his senseless infatuation with Grace Blackthorn.

What of Daisy, who had waited for him, had given him so many chances, had sacrificed and endangered herself time and time again for him? How must she have felt, to be tossed aside so many times in favor of a woman who would never even love James in return? How much did his wife despise him, for how James had blindly sullied the precious sweetness of their marriage and home, regardless of if they were real or not? 

That was the greatest pain of all. For though Grace had wounded James deeply and irreversibly, in his very soul, he simply could not bear the fact that it was his own actions, intended or not, that had caused Cordelia such agony. Cordelia, so full of her beautiful quiet integrity, humiliated and brought low as James dropped her in the institute ballroom, forced to give up her reputation and bind herself to him due to his foolishness. He could not blame her for giving up on him. 

And Matthew-- the other half of James’s heart, his own having been broken hundreds of times from so many unrequited loves over the years. He had held James upright through every anguish caused by Grace’s poison, while James had remained blind to his parabatai’s pain. 

He could only think how they must hate him, not knowing the truth of the bracelet’s curse. 

James tried to push the thought from his head, told himself that he would be forgiven once they knew what really happened. His sister Lucie had assured him of as much. After James, his father, and Magnus Bane had found her in Cornwall, frolicking on the beach with a mysteriously revived Jesse Blackthorn and the warlock Malcom Fade, he had filled her in on everything. There had been too many secrets between all of them, and James had been eager to lift this one particular burden off his chest. The whole story, as no one but him knew it: the bracelet, the feelings it had locked away within him and the control Belial exerted through it, Grace’s appearance at Curzon Street and Cordelia and Matthew’s subsequent flight to Paris. 

“I am ashamed to have been paying so little attention recently as to know if Daisy returns either your feelings or Matthew’s,” she had said in response, with a slight shake of her head. “But I am without a doubt that she deserves the truth of yours, and why they have made themselves known this late. Matthew deserves to know, too, even if it will break his heart to hear of your suffering. But you must allow Daisy to choose for herself between the two of you, knowing the truth of it-- of all of it. And you must make peace with whatever she decides, James. She has been whipped about quite enough I imagine.”

Lucie reminded him so much of their mother in that moment, with that wondrous insightful surety, that faith that all would be well so long as one was honest with those they loved. The image was quickly swept away as she wacked James on the shoulder. “Now quit squinting at me like that and go to the station, you dolt.” 

He had done as much, boarded the train that very afternoon feeling somewhat confident that Daisy and Matthew would understand. But that confidence had waned with every kilometer that the train neared Paris. A city of love and art and history that James had dreamed of bringing Daisy to, himself. He could only hope that it was not too late. 

James slid his freezing hands into his coat pockets. 

In the left, carefully folded, its creases becoming worn as he had thumbed it anxiously, was Matthew’s letter. The truth within it-- of his parabatai’s love for Daisy-- had hurt, but perhaps more agonizing was hearing the fury in Matthew’s words. And how could he not be angry? As far as he knew, James was still hopelessly chasing after Grace, cold smoke where Daisy was fire, leaving his wife to humiliation and possibly even heartbreak.

In the right pocket of his coat, so delicate and small, were Cordelia’s gloves. He didn’t know why exactly he had brought them; only that he had grabbed them when he left the house in search of her the week before and they hadn’t left his grip since. He doubted Cordelia was in any need of them, and was sure that Matthew was outfitting her in the finest Parisian fashions, but they felt significant somehow. A piece of her, a piece of their home, their lives together. James’s stiff fingers curled around them, imagining that her hands were within, but they were but an empty shell of his Daisy, his love, his wife. 

He felt rather like Lady Justice, guiding the people towards righteousness with a set of balanced scales in one hand and a sword in the other. Only instead it was James himself who would be judged, he whose mistakes and ill-doings would be set upon the scales. And it was up to Cordelia and Matthew to decide if the sword should come down upon his neck.


	2. Cordelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 2! This one is for the Fairstairs fans amongst us. I hope you guys enjoy it :) Jordelia to come...

“This one is rather fine, no?” Cordelia dropped the hat onto her head at a dramatic angle and turned to face Matthew across the shop, where he stood examining a display of woven boaters. 

He grinned at her, before making his way over. “Stunning. If you were hoping to seduce a brick of concrete.” Nimbly, as though he were performing a slight of hand, he swept the hat from her head and replaced it with a gaudy feathered one he had drawn from the display. Its multicolored resemblance to the paintings in the impressionist galleries they had toured that morning was remarkable. 

Cordelia sniffed, adjusting the new hat so that it sat properly on her head. “I thought the other was quite elegant indeed. Subtle. Understated.” 

“Subtle? In this city?” Matthew laughed. “This is a city of passion, of color! There is no room to look so dour in Paris.” He slipped behind her, languid as a spring wind, and gently took her by the shoulders, leading her about the shop to look in the mirror.

“There, you see? Très chic. You’ll seduce much more than a concrete brick in this one.” He brushed the feathers into place affectionately before catching her gaze in the mirror. There was a pause between them as their eyes met, a silent exchange of something Cordelia was hesitant to put a name to. 

She couldn’t help but remember the night before, the warm glow of the dance hall they had found their way to after dinner, where they had danced for what felt like hours, one of his hands on her waist, the other in hers. He hadn’t touched her or spoken to her in any way that was unwanted or inappropriate, had been a perfect gentleman in all respects. But she had been unable to ignore the warmth that had filled the various holes in her chest in his presence. 

They had stumbled through the snow-laden streets half-drunk and giddy with the sheer enjoyment of the evening, though neither had consumed any alcohol, and parted ways at Cordelia’s hotel room door with a chaste kiss on the cheek. Smiling to herself, feeling truly weightless for the first time in what felt like months, Cordelia had paused to watch Matthew lope down the hall to his room. 

“Matthew--” She had found his name slipping from her lips without thinking of it. Only that he was walking away from her, and that she wished him to stop. 

His expression was unreadable in the dimly lit hall as he turned back to her. 

“Thank you,” Cordelia had said, her voice little more than a whisper. “For everything. You-- you don’t know how much it all means.” 

Slowly, so slowly, Matthew had stepped forwards, his shoes near silent on the carpeted floor.

Cordelia’s heartbeat was deafening in her ears. 

Matthew took another couple of steps towards her, until they were close. She could smell his musky cologne, feel his breath brush her cheek. They had watched one another for a moment, the space between them taught and crackling. Cordelia thought she could feel the stirrings of something warm in her chest, where coldness had settled. 

“I--” Matthew’s voice was soft and thick with what was unsaid. His eyes were black in the dim light. He swallowed again. “I told you that I wouldn’t press my affections upon you, Cordelia.”  
Cordelia drew in a swift breath. 

“--And I won’t,” He continued, the words coming quickly, as if he were afraid she would say something in response. “But-- only let me tell you that seeing you smile like that, laugh as you did tonight, is its own reward. I said I’d wait for you, Cordelia, and I will. I am. But that doesn’t mean I’ll wait to try and see you smile as you once did.” 

Cordelia had tilted her face up to examine his more directly. “You deserve happiness, too, Matthew. Never forget that.” 

His eyes briefly shut, as if recoiling from pain, before Matthew had bid her good night and walked down the hall to his room. 

In the hat shop the next morning, Cordelia saw in Matthew’s gaze in the mirror that he was recalling the moment, too. He quickly looked away, busying himself with another hat that he drew from the stand and began to examine with a little too much interest. 

The tension was gone between them by the time they left the shop. Though Cordelia had been to Paris before, Matthew had been right-- it was different with him than it was with her parents. Their hotel was respectable and elegant, but had a bohemian edge that made her lament Anna’s absence, nestled at the base of Montmartre. The neighborhood was all steep, winding streets webbed by quiet alleys that led towards places of sin and debauchery, but Matthew had knowingly kept them from those. 

“It is the streets of Paris that so dominate literature, but I find that its rooftops are criminally underrated.” Cordelia observed as they rounded the corner of their Hotel. She craned her neck to try and manage a better view of a gargoyle that jutted out overhead from a stone church’s bell tower. 

Matthew nodded seriously in agreement. “I think I should like to visit Paris as a pigeon someday. I hear they eat like birds in no other city, perhaps save New York.” 

Cordelia cocked her head, pondering for a moment. “I was thinking it would be more ideal as a cat. There’d be a certain level of mystique to the experience, a glamour that pigeons may not afford.” 

“Surely there is no glamour in eating pigeons.” Matthew pressed a hand to his chest in a dramatic gesture. 

“Who said anything about eating pigeons?” 

“You did, when you brought up the cat. Have you ever met a Parisian cat? They’re epicures if ever I knew one.” 

Cordelia laughed. A light snow had begun to fall, and a powdery dusting brightened the cobbled streets. Small crystals collected on Matthew’s scarf and in his hair. Silver dusting gold, she thought to herself. Without thinking, Cordelia reached up and brushed some from the shoulder of his green wool coat. 

Matthew stiffened, and she immediately withdrew her hand. His face had drained of color. 

A moment of terror later, she realized it was not her touch that had stilled him, but something he had seen over her shoulder. 

Slowly, Cordelia turned. 

Outside the hotel, a slim young man stood, his black-clothed figure striking against the growing white of the street. He was as still as stone, his golden eyes wide. 

James, her husband, who was hers but would never belong to her, was as beautiful to her as he had always been.

There was a certain question that had begun to drift into Cordelia’s head over the past couple of days. She had repeatedly set it aside, pushed it away, both wanting and fearing what would come of resolving it. 

In that moment, it made itself clear to her, and Cordelia had her answer.


End file.
